it's hard to get by just upon a smile
The house is quiet, when Elizabeth gets home from the nexus. There could be a thousand reasons for that, but for this single moment in time, she's not thinking about any of them.
Marshall's letter is burning a hole in her pocket. She tosses her coat over the sofa and doesn't stop moving until she's in the basement, until she's sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the wall-to-wall mirrors, kicking her shoes off and pulling the scrap of paper out.
Lizzie,
Thank you, sweetheart. Keep 'em.
- M.S
It's his handwriting. The way he signed the notes he'd leave on her pillow when he had to be somewhere early in the morning (she remembers clearly; the only way she'd be up before him was if she never went to bed the night before...all right, so that happened, a few times). The faint smell of the same aftershave she's sure he must've worn his entire life. The 'L' in her name -- his name for her, the only person she ever accepted that from -- flourishes a little, an affectionate nod to her in his crisp print.
Thanking her -- for what? She knows, though. Her whole body ached afterwards, her hands on the shovel and she wasn't that strong, he was heavy, but between them--
"Did you love him?"
"Yes."
--they'd done it. Covered him with earth and she'd said...she doesn't remember what she said, but it hadn't been enough. It had never been enough, but she's all grown up now and it has to be. It has to be, and it will be. Just as soon as she can breathe again. Just as soon as she can remember how to tuck it away and keep it safe and secret, where she doesn't have to let it hurt. She doesn't wonder why it's Marshall, and not Simon, who fills her thoughts (because she knows).
Keep them, he said -- the dog tags, she's sure. She'd tugged them from his body, dirty from his sweat and blood. They rest against her chest, now -- clean, warmed by her skin, a tangible reminder that she had something to lose, that she has something to hold onto now. Watching him walk out that door, when she was so young and they were both so stupid -- she'd thought, then, nothing would hurt more than never seeing him walk back in it. Except she remembers the blood like tear-stains on his cheeks, and seeing him like that -- when she fled that hospital, she thought she had nothing left to lose. She doesn't know how she feels about being wrong about that.
She doesn't cry.
(Except, sometimes, when she does.)
Marshall's letter is burning a hole in her pocket. She tosses her coat over the sofa and doesn't stop moving until she's in the basement, until she's sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the wall-to-wall mirrors, kicking her shoes off and pulling the scrap of paper out.
Lizzie,
Thank you, sweetheart. Keep 'em.
- M.S
It's his handwriting. The way he signed the notes he'd leave on her pillow when he had to be somewhere early in the morning (she remembers clearly; the only way she'd be up before him was if she never went to bed the night before...all right, so that happened, a few times). The faint smell of the same aftershave she's sure he must've worn his entire life. The 'L' in her name -- his name for her, the only person she ever accepted that from -- flourishes a little, an affectionate nod to her in his crisp print.
Thanking her -- for what? She knows, though. Her whole body ached afterwards, her hands on the shovel and she wasn't that strong, he was heavy, but between them--
"Did you love him?"
"Yes."
--they'd done it. Covered him with earth and she'd said...she doesn't remember what she said, but it hadn't been enough. It had never been enough, but she's all grown up now and it has to be. It has to be, and it will be. Just as soon as she can breathe again. Just as soon as she can remember how to tuck it away and keep it safe and secret, where she doesn't have to let it hurt. She doesn't wonder why it's Marshall, and not Simon, who fills her thoughts (because she knows).
Keep them, he said -- the dog tags, she's sure. She'd tugged them from his body, dirty from his sweat and blood. They rest against her chest, now -- clean, warmed by her skin, a tangible reminder that she had something to lose, that she has something to hold onto now. Watching him walk out that door, when she was so young and they were both so stupid -- she'd thought, then, nothing would hurt more than never seeing him walk back in it. Except she remembers the blood like tear-stains on his cheeks, and seeing him like that -- when she fled that hospital, she thought she had nothing left to lose. She doesn't know how she feels about being wrong about that.
She doesn't cry.
(Except, sometimes, when she does.)